


He Would Never Know

by Feralious



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feralious/pseuds/Feralious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looked at his hands again, then back up  at Silva, who was still glaring at him, that same expression still in his eyes. An expression of anger, of hatred, of desperation and of pain. Especially pain. That’s when he understood.</p><p>“It’s the handcuffs,” he said, matter-of-factly.</p><p>Silva didn’t answer. Still stared at him.</p><p>Bond found himself unable to look away, slowly taken in by the hurt that radiated from those eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Would Never Know

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt:
> 
> Ever since the torture in Hong Kong, Silva is PTSD-y, and what really freaks him out is being constricted in some fashion. Which is why he’s having a bit of a panic attack when they handcuff him during the flight from his island to England. This makes Bond feel strangely bad for Silva.
> 
> Hurt/comfort, in the form of horse tranquilizers? And Bond is the one who suggests they put Silva in the glass cage, without handcuffs, because… otherwise he’ll be too useless to confess things, that’s right. That’s totally the reason he suggests that.

Silva had come quietly. It wasn’t that Bond hadn’t expected him to cooperate – a man of Silva’s brilliance knew when he had lost – but the way he acted as he climbed aboard one of the helicopters was strange to say the least.

He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t smiling, none of his previous demeanor seemed to have remained. He seemed a shell of his former self, jaw clenched and knuckles white as he was led aboard the same helicopter Bond was traveling in to keep an eye on him.

Bond watched him from his position on the other side, but didn’t speak. Didn’t say a word.

Neither did Silva.

They had been in the air for an hour when Bond’s attention was directed towards their prisoner again. Over the roaring sound of the chopper he could hear a faint, clinking sound. Curiously he furrowed his brow, gaze roaming over Silva.

It finally settled on his hands, bound together by an old-fashioned, trustworthy set of handcuffs, linked to a similar pair around his ankles, the chains binding them rattling continuously due to Silva’s trembling hands.

Bond looked up, finding Silva’s eyes closed, a harsh expression on his face.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of flying as well,” he called over the noise that had been thundering in his ears for the past hour.

Silva didn’t respond, didn’t even give any sign he’d heard him. This irked Bond; what good was there in mocking Silva if he couldn’t hear a word he said?

He got up and crossed the space dividing them in a few steps, gesturing to a guard flanking Silva to move. He proceeded to take over his seat and turned his head to look at him again.

Silva didn’t even seem to have realized that Bond was now within a foot’s distance next to him.

Bond’s eyes moved downwards, resting on his still clenched fists, then back up to notice that Silva was breathing hard, as though he was lacking oxygen.

Bond grabbed his arm, trying to get his attention; Silva’s eyes flew open and he backed away, almost into the lap of the security guard on his other side.

“Easy now,” Bond told him, letting go of him. “Really, what are _you_ so afraid of?”

Silva still kept quiet, his eyes flashing with something Bond didn’t recognize, the frightened look in them leaving as quickly as it had appeared. Instead he was now glowering at him, an all-consuming rage apparent on his face.

He still didn’t speak.

“Did I scare you?” Bond said, unable to suppress laughter. “You? Here I was under the impression that inflicting fear upon others was your own idea of a hobby…”

He trailed off, something in Silva’s stare made him shut up. He couldn’t even think of any more insults to taunt him with.

He looked at his hands again, then back up  at Silva, who was still glaring at him, that same expression still in his eyes. An expression of anger, of hatred, of desperation and of pain. Especially pain.

That’s when he understood.

“It’s the handcuffs,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Silva didn’t answer. Still stared at him.

Bond found himself unable to look away, slowly taken in by the hurt that radiated from those eyes.

“Shouldn’t have killed so many innocent people,” he commented, but not with his usual flair; somehow his joke felt highly inappropriate. Almost as if blowing up the MI6 headquarters didn’t warrant Silva’s current state of detainment.

“They caught you. In Hong Kong.”

No reaction, even if some of that previous fear crossed his face for a split second.

“What did they do to you?” Bond continued, knowing he wouldn’t  get an answer. “Nasty methods they’ve got, the Chinese… how did you survive?”

Silva’s jaw clenched and he finally directed his gaze away from Bond, staring straight at the wall ahead.

“Fine, don’t answer me,” Bond told him irritably, growing a little tired of having to raise his voice over the sound of the helicopter when Silva still didn’t respond to him in any way.

The thing was, though, that there was now an uncomfortable feeling growing in his stomach. This was unknown territory to him; never in his long career as an agent had he ever come close to experiencing something that Silva had obviously gone through. Sure, he’d been tortured, he’d felt enough pain to last him a lifetime – but not like this. He could tell that whatever it was that Silva had endured had caused far more damage than any scars could show.

He wrecked his mind trying to come up with any possible scenarios for an MI6 agent to become this fragile, this vulnerable. He couldn’t think of any. Couldn’t think of anything that could turn a skilled, cold-blooded operative into such a mess. He’d had his doubts over Silva’s claim of being a better agent than Bond, but he’d never met an agent who had ended up like this.

Seemed like he didn’t know all there was about fear after all.

*

Bond groaned, rubbing his temples as he slumped forwards in his seat. They were on the plane to England and he’d tried to get a few hours sleep, but to no avail. His thoughts were still with the man detained in the holding cell at the back.

Silva had still not spoken a word, the only sound that sometimes reached Bond’s ears being the clinking of his chains. He wasn’t sure whether he was actually hearing it or if it had been burned into his memory; he couldn’t see Silva from his current seating so for all he knew he could’ve fallen asleep.

Oh, as if. If Bond couldn’t sleep then Silva sure as hell couldn’t, either.

Now that he thought about it, Bond figured that maybe he had fallen asleep for a short while after all. His jumbled thoughts had been invaded by visions of Silva, his body cut and bruised, wrists tied behind his back. The damage to his body wasn’t from a few days; no, if Bond had to take a guess, the Silva in his dreams had been held captive for weeks, maybe even months.

He involuntarily shuddered at the suggestion. Being tortured. By the Chinese. For days on end. With no idea of when help would arrive. He imagined that could scar a man for life.

No wonder Silva had ended up like this, even if Bond couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps he was still missing something. Something majorly important.

*

Even in his cell, without his constraints, Silva still didn’t speak to him. He’d just looked at him, once, when Bond had told the guards to put him in here, without his confinements. The look he’d given him had hit Bond with an unexpected force; the amount of gratitude it spoke was almost overwhelming. It had caused a sharp pain to rip through his chest, he’d thought he’d understood the hurt Silva had felt during their journey home, but only now, seeing how his tightened muscles relaxed, his knuckles no longer drained of blood,  the pain in his eyes being pushed back underneath the surface again, he felt like he’d had a glance of just of how deeply Silva was wounded.

It hadn’t been difficult to convince the guards. They’d all noticed how withdrawn Silva had been on the way back, so when Bond suggested the glass containment cell, no one had objected to his notion that it might be easier to get him to confess from there.

A few had joked that Silva was pathetic, that he should just suck it up and take his loss like a man. Bond hadn’t laughed. Just stared at them until they left.

One had come back to bring Silva the prison uniform he was ordered to put on. Bond had watched him take off his extravagant clothing, making sure he wasn’t carrying anything that could potentially help him escape – much in the same way Bond had done earlier. He’d been slightly surprised to find Silva was not carrying anything useful; no radio, no gun, nothing.

What surprised him even more was the sight of Silva’s bare upper body, countless scars covering every inch of his skin.

Silva was aware he was watching, he had to be; Bond didn’t know how he could possibly miss the agent staring at him a few yards from the glass. But as before, Silva didn’t show any signs acknowledging his presence.

After he’d finished changing and gave his clothes to the leaving guard, Silva sat down on the lone seat in his cell. Back turned to Bond.

Bond stared at him, pondering whether he should say something. Ask him what happened.

He decided not to, figuring everything would be explained in just a matter of moments.

A few minutes, maybe even an hour, went by. Then the doors opened and M walked in, guards behind her.

M seemed to know Silva.

Silva certainly seemed to know her.

Bond listened to their conversation, learned what had happened to Silva. Learned the horrible fate that had met him.

Learned his name, which wasn’t actually his name.

Learned that his pain indeed ran far deeper than he’d originally thought.

Bond doubted Silva had planned on taking out that thing that kept his face intact. He’d felt strangely guilty about watching it, feeling that this wasn’t for him to see, but he’d watched nonetheless, unable to look away. He’d watched with morbid fascination as Silva removed it, unable to ignore the now visible hell that M had put him through.

Bond couldn’t help but think that there had been a certain truth to Silva’s words. The two survivors. Both given up on by M, both sent off to their certain deaths.

M better had a damn good reason for leaving him behind.

*

He’d followed her out, certain that that was all the information he’d get from Silva now. He’d leave him to deal with his own issues before going back later, trying to figure out how he’d gotten himself in a position where even M, the M who had looked out for Bond so many times, had given up on him.

But first, he wanted to hear her side of the story.

Bond stopped walking, waiting for M’s explanation. She and Tanner turned around, facing him. He didn’t even need to ask; M noticed the look on his face and obviously agreed he deserved one.

Bond learned his name was Tiago Rodriguez. Learned that he’d gone rogue; that he’d been exchanged for the lives of more, innocent agents.

Well, as innocent as murdering employees of MI6 got.

Silva turned out to be right. M seemed to feel no remorse.

_Regret is unprofessional._

Bond agreed. After all, it was all just business. Everything for the mission. MI6. England.

But with Silva, things seemed to be different. With the way he’d looked up to M, Bond couldn’t imagine him having done anything that would’ve harmed the mission. Never would’ve done anything that would justify being left to die after months of torture.

It didn’t sit right with Bond just how easy M had thrown Silva away. Especially after everything she’d condoned when it came to Bond.

Maybe that was why she was now so lenient with him, he thought.

Maybe she did regret handing Silva over after all, and was now trying to not repeat her mistakes with him.

But no matter if she’d learned from her mistakes, Bond still felt a pang of regret that it was too late for Silva. Too late for Tiago Rodriguez.

*

He wouldn’t get a chance to go back, never got his opportunity to talk to him, try to understand him. The next thing he knew Silva had escaped, hacking into MI6, revealing that it had been his plan all along to get caught.

Bond had briefly wrecked his mind over why Silva had bothered with such an elaborate plan when he could’ve taken M out any time he wanted, but the answer had come to him far quickly than he’d imagined.

It wasn’t just that Silva had needed to look M in the eye one last time. He’d wanted M to see what she’d done, see her mistakes in person. See what she’d made him.

Even as he was chasing him, shooting at him, Bond hadn’t actually wanted to kill him. Probably hadn’t even wanted to catch him. But as much as he felt sorry for Silva going through what he had, Bond’s top priority had been making sure M was safe. Yes, M had made mistakes, but no one is perfect and to Bond, she was one of very few people he truly cared about.

He knew M had felt devastated over the thought of losing him, even if she was the one to order the shot. And he suspected she’d felt awful over losing Silva, too; or at least before he started killing innocent people to achieve his goal of revenge.

In some way, Bond had felt guilty over robbing Silva of the one thing he lived for when he ended his pain-filled life. Blamed himself for letting both of them die before ever getting the whole story, now left with questions that would never be answered. Perhaps he’d thought their deaths would’ve brought some closure to this whole tragedy, but it felt like the exact opposite. Now he would never know.

Never know what separated him from Silva. Never know what made him so different from Tiago.

 Because deep down, Bond felt, they had probably been the same. Only now Bond was alive and Silva was dead.

And Bond would never know.

**Author's Note:**

> Third attempt at writing 00Silva fic, first to actually get finished. Glad to finally contribute something to this fandom.


End file.
